A Curse Of Glass And Iron (Dark Heralds Book 2)

by Lynn S.

  Marissa’s eyes became teary in the presence of madness. A fragile psyche, a slip into insanity, and she would be damaged goods. The deranged could not sustain within their bodies a fairy child. Careful, Francis. Take great care what you say or do. Too many elements are waiting on you to commit a mistake. His hands started caressing Marissa’s hair, and then he placed all attention upon her lips. Her nature had taken care of repairing the bruises in her body; his deceptions were soon to heal her soul.

  Her eyes fluttered ever so softly, but he rocked her back to sleep in his embrace.

  Patience, Francis. Patience over all.

  ***

  St. Peter Street, New Orleans

  The vampire’s eyes opened to the white of walls and the soft rustle of curtains dancing in the night breeze. Long gone were the thick insulators from the night before. These were delicate, expensive fabrics, warm colors that complemented the panes of French design. The ample windows were opened to a world of color and music.

  Garan Nolton could hear the comings and goings of the French Quarter below him. In fact, with just a stretch of concentration, it was easy to listen to each separate heartbeat.

  “Is everything fine with you, ma cher? How much do you remember about yesterday night, love?” The delicate, cinnamon scented hand that now caressed his temple with an almost maternal quality had run knife along his neck the night before. And yet, the violinist held no resentment against her. It was as if he had been blinded by lack of knowledge and fear. And now, Brigitte stood as a beacon, drawing him in, curling his lips into a smile. He knew everything he needed to know about her. The information fresh inside his head planted by a being who had fused with him completely.

  “I remember walking a woman home from a bar. Sometime during the night, I was tied to this bed and my life was in danger. I think I died. Once or twice, it’s fuzzy. Mortals keep scores of their brushes with death, I no longer need to.” His body stretched under Egyptian cotton sheets and he yawned. When his tongue brushed against a couple of elongated canines, there was no surprise. Garan knew everything about being a vampire. His body and mind accepted centuries of existence as if they had been his own. In fact, they were. The memory of eons stored in his head.

  Brigitte smiled, satisfied. The dweller had been good on his promise. Somehow Garan and the vampire had reached an agreement.

  “Care for a sip, dear?” Brigitte now poured a cup of French coffee. New Orleans’ own, infused with chicory and loaded with sugar, soon filled the room with its bitter sweet aroma.

  “If I could skip on my usual meals, that coffee will be it.” Now it was his turn to return a grin. His teeth were gleaming white and perfect, the menace of fangs hidden from view. Waking with fangs exposed was a vampire’s version of sleeping with one eye open. Garan rose from bed. He was barefoot and dressed only in loose fitting jeans. Combing his fingers through his hair, the vampire found his dark mane sticky and in need of a wash. His fingertips were stained with rusty bits of dried blood.

  “Just give me a second to jump in the shower, Brigitte. It looks like the night I half remember involved some sort of fun.”

  Brigitte tasted her brew while Garan proceeded to take off his clothes without any sign of modesty, and then started browsing through stuff in the drawers.

  The Lady raised an amused eyebrow and took in the view, chuckling softly before indulging in her chicory. It was obvious the dweller had left a bit of his insolence infused in the young man. For what she knew about Garan, he was pleasant, but a little restrained. She wondered how many other…surprises they were meant to stumble across.

  Garan believed he had slept for barely one day, and she’d let him have that. But the transition had taken the good part of four and their nights. During that time, Bansit and Brigitte had reshaped reality around him, filling spaces, meaning for him to wake into a world that seemed familiar. The dweller had been listening inside him while they merged, paying attention to all they told him. And now Garan moved with expertise around the apartment he was made to believe had been his for years.

  As fun as it struck her, it was still shocking to watch.

  And she’d watch, of course, all that he’d allow her to. Who was she to impose over some kind of magic that perfectly merged a body that held no complaints and a spirit with exhibitionist tendencies? Brigitte savored coffee and view until Garan stepped out of the shower, his dark hair slicked back and the blue of his eyes sparkling cobalt.

  “If memory serves me right, you wanted me to conjure someone from the glass.” The vampire moved, without trepidation, to uncover the mirror hidden behind heavy drapes. The glass was colder than his skin, but he rested his hand upon the neat surface, reciting words long forgotten. Mist formed behind the glass, gray and soft. Beads of liquid filtered through the mirror, but nothing broke out. Garan had total control of the Gate of Glass. Still, the vampire couldn’t shake hundreds of eyes upon him. Beady, bird-like, they watched his every move. Some supplicant, others angry, quite a few still hungry.

  Garan knew exactly how it felt to be trapped beyond the world of the living, in a place where death was not the end of penance.

  “Give me a name, Brigitte du Cimetière. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter XI

  Something Wicked

  Brigitte knew Garan meant business. His demeanor changed. Once again, the vampire was tense. If given a chance to guess, the Lady would have bet on wariness instead of fear. He had promised the mirror something he was not willing to give, and had to step gingerly so as not to be forced to make good on that promise. Keep that poker face on, they’ll need to buy it, she thought. Brigitte got close to Garan’s ear and whispered, “Bastian Salgado and Adriana Popescu.”

  The vampire didn’t have to echo the words. They traveled through him. Soon the dweller knew Brigitte had been given a task. The oracle had not laid eyes on either of these individuals. The Morrigan knew them, however. It was enough to tell him that whatever trouble the couple was in started far away from New Orleans. Little details that might help in later bargains.

  Soon enough, two figures appeared on the other side of the glass. The man, Portuguese with inquisitive olive eyes, bit his lower lip as he tried to contain a triumphant smile. He recognized Brigitte for what she was and looked thrilled.

  “It is hard to tell if this one is a fanboy or a scholar,” the vampire told the Lady. “The other one, though, the vampyr…oh, there’s so much hate in there, it’s almost entertaining.”

  The vampire came closer to the glass. The mist had not yet cleared completely and even for him it was hard to make out the look on their faces. Nevertheless, emotions and thoughts hit him deeply. “Ah! So, he is from the Order. I can imagine…having a chance to see what none have been able to come back and tell. And the blonde one is his beloved. There’s a chance his spirit didn’t descend into the mirror realm just for the joy of research.”

  “We can hear you. And we’ve waited long enough to play tease. What’s the price of our little meeting? Gallons of blood, I presume.” Adriana spit out her words bitterly, and in response, Bastian held her in place and tried to quiet her. Though his attention went to Brigitte, he recognized Garan as a newly spawned dweller. After all, it was his idea to find this vampire.

  During transition, dwellers imbibed copious amounts of blood, submitting their victims to unimaginable violence. But then they just settled, fusing with their host, allowing for the personality traits of the person who opened that door to come to the forefront. The horror they had seen the night the mirror world was first summoned didn’t come by Garan’s hand. At least not entirely. Bastian had tried to convince Adriana to put down her guard, but he had only books as reference. Adriana had seen dwellers in action and she knew they always picked mayhem if given a chance.

  She had witnessed it first hand in Romania, when the wars between clans forced the Popescu into hiding. A rival vampyr clan had summoned dwellers to make her father draw back. As cruel as her progenitor had been, he was
nothing compared to a hunter who harbored the thirstiest spirit within him. They had used mortals as pawns and puppets, leaving a wreck of bodies behind, jumping from skin to skin until the last of their enemies had been vanquished.

  Adriana could tell Garan knew this story. The vampire looked at her with a lopsided grin, mocking her sudden burst of righteousness.

  “Adriana Popescu, there’s a chance your words might hurt me. But then I think how they are coming from someone whose family name stained most of the landscape of Southeast Europe in blood and treason. Better let bygones be bygones. And let’s not forget who is behind the mirror. You. Need. Me.”

  Toc, toc. Garan’s finger hit against the glass and the echo reverberated through all the dark of the forest. It was humiliating, being treated like a fish in an aquarium.

  “We have no quarrel with you,” Bastian interceded with his usual diplomacy. “And sure, there’s nothing much to offer on our part except for my wife’s flashes of temper. Let’s start again. Honor to the Lady, Brigitte, who has heard our plea. And thanks to you, who are willing to lend a hand.”

  “Oh, this is delightful!” Brigitte’s expression turned mischievous. “The Morrigan told me you were a charmer, but I didn’t expect this. You want to honor me, Bastian Salgado? Tell it, honest truth to God, and do your wife some justice. Garan’s a pain in the ass. And besides, while you are in there, he can read your thoughts as the day is long. So, if you want to honor me, I’d rather hear what’s on your mind.”

  Bastian didn’t miss a beat. He still had the same kind demeanor about him. The words that blurted out of his lips played out in the most unexpected manner. He looked at Garan, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms about his chest. “Were I alive or out of here, I’d find a way to bind you to my will and make you speak only in a need to know basis. But I’m here, and dead, and there’s nothing much to do than to be kind to one another. We’ll put all our cards on the table and hope you can help us rejoin Adriana with her body. She’s pending on a soul thread, tucked away in upstate New York.” As soon as Bastian finished speaking, his look turned to one of concern. That was not at all what he was planning to say.

  Brigitte chuckled softly, telling the vampire beside her, “This is not at all something you should consider to your gain. I work to my own advantage. Let’s say I am so tired of hearing half-truths from the living who could not waste a chance on extorting a bit of sincerity from the dead.” She shrugged, looking at Bastian. “No offense, darlin’.”

  The Portuguese man mumbled something unintelligible before mouthing, “None taken.”

  Garan, however, kept to himself. It took him no time to understand that behind Brigitte’s little display of power was an underlying insecurity. The Lady didn’t know everything, and that was something she was not willing to suffer, not while foreign elements operated in her city. She didn’t trust the Morrigan to be completely truthful, and that meant he couldn’t trust either of the women.

  Garan spoke to the only entities who would answer in truth. The mirror folk had been listening in since the blonde vampyr and the ghost arrived. Lost in their own troubles, they had confided more than they should. Just because Bastian and Adriana thought themselves alone, it didn’t mean they were.

  The collective that conspired behind the glass might have hated him, hounded him, and even sworn to bring him to justice…but they also knew how and when to bargain. Their only route of escape was in dwellers living outside the glass. So they whispered amongst themselves and finally gave Garan some information to play with. Something so important that Brigitte, the Morrigan, and those trapped behind the glass thought he shouldn’t have.

  “Who is Marissa?” he demanded of the couple. Met with silence, the vampire asked Brigitte.

  “Not of your business, sweetheart,” the oracle answered. “What the Morrigan require of you is to rise Adriana’s soul from the mirror and connect it to her body back in New York. She will take care of this Marissa matter as soon as she makes it out of the glass.”

  “Just to clarify,” Garan pointed toward the mirror, “I need to draw her out. The ghost, her husband, will be my inside man. He surely knows a spell or two to keep dwellers from trying to attach to her soul. Or perhaps there’s a little something that might see to me keeping my word and not turn on you and free a brother or a sister rather than the feisty blonde, right?”

  “Right,” Brigitte replied without need to comfort.

  “Oh! Now tell me what you are not telling me, Cemetery Lady. By agreeing to do what you just asked me to, I have just stamped myself with a due date. As soon as I free Adriana Popescu, I become redundant. That’s just not fair. But if I keep them encased in glass, they will help out with expertise while I make myself useful, giving y’all a hand in finding this little miss who seems to be so…important.”

  “The Morrigan gave their word that they’ll settle your debts to the Shadows. You are missing out on a bargain here!” Brigitte’s tawny eyes flared pearlescent. She was not pleased.

  “And I recall having told you and your lovely assassin that it is not the first time I have placed my trust in deities just to be betrayed. My rules will be the only ones in play here. I’ll start worrying about burning bridges later.”

  “That was not the deal!” Bastian and Adriana protested in unison, their combined fury making the glass tremble.

  “And yet there’s nothing you can do about it,” the dark-haired vampire reminded them.

  Brigitte gritted her teeth. She was starting to resent this new and improved Garan Nolton, but she saw a certain advantage in conceding.

  “It’s done,” she replied.

  “And so,” Garan requested of the couple behind the mirror, “I’ll need to see the face of this Marissa you are so bent on saving. All you need to do is think about her. The glass will do the rest.”

  ***

  Lafayette Cemetery #1, New Orleans

  Bansit kept her head down as she paced around the crypt. The realm of the cemetery was ample enough, but that sensation of being trapped within walls gave her no reassurance. It brought back memories of terrible deeds, things she should have let go of hundreds of years ago. The consequence of living forever while trying to keep some semblance of a conscience.

  Wedo kept her company, but it didn’t help much. The silent and enigmatic brother to Brigitte du Cimetière was…unsettling. It was customary for the siblings to project themselves as opposites. Where Brigitte was a mahogany-skinned goddess leaning toward exuberance with onyx ringlets of natural curl and cheekbones to die for, her brother was…sickly. Skin that once had been caramel now looked ghostly pale, riddled in scaly patches. His hair, soft and feathery, fell about his face, covering his eyes. Perhaps it was a mercy, because even a being as old as a Morrigan couldn’t help averting from his sight. Wedo’s eyes were unmoving. He never blinked. They were always open, capturing the moment. Brigitte took, while he gave, and that was what made him the guardian of life, while his sister presided over death.

  By no means should one uninitiated think one suffered while the other thrived. Dissimilar as they may have looked, they were family. As siblings, they were partial to games of their own making.

  The young oracle kept to himself, reading from a book yellowed with age. Careful fingers caressed brittle pages. Once in a while he’d look up from his book to acknowledge the presence of The Phantom Queen. She was gracious enough to trust him with a feather, after all. Just because of favors owed, Wedo considered warning her. He had grown fond of the Morrigan, enough to speak. The oracle of life hardly ever opened his mouth. His chords were dissonant and came across as a serpentine hiss. But the Morrigan had been kind, and the oracle decided to advise her.

  “Brigitte asked me to tell you she left you in the crypt so you can ssspeak to her, to your sssister. Annand decreed you were not to meet Mikka. Brigitte thinks differently.”

  “Really?” Bansit’s face beamed with a joy she had forgotten since her arrival. She missed her sister dea
rly. Last time they had been separated, terrible things happened.

  “Ssshe will be here, but not by herself. A prince of Aval arrives with her.”

  “A prince?” Surely Auberon or young Doiten, Meav’s nephew.”

  “No. It’s Killian.”

  The Morrigan’s joy faded. Wedo could feel her desolation like a chill on his skin. He was right to warn her.

  “I’m telling you in advance because of the Three Who Wait, you are the most transparent. This city is free of your rules, but you have bindings that hold you to ground wherever you ssstep. Take care of your words, Bansit. There are no lies ssspoken in a Circle and it is wise to remind you that this city is trapped within waters, very much like any of your sacred rings.”

  As he spoke, the screeching sound of metal against metal and machinery interrupted them. A restoration approved by the city council called for the removal of one of the older wrought iron gateways into the cemetery. The young oracle was not startled by the sudden commotion. Nothing ever happened in Lafayette #1 that his sister was not aware of, or approved. The removal of that one gate was Brigitte’s idea of a red carpet, a symbolic act of good faith toward the arrival of a member of the Seelie Court. Within minutes of the disruption, the crypt was silent once again and Bansit and Wedo were ready for the arrival of their otherworldly visitors.

  Killian materialized before Mikka did. The visiting Morrigan opted to keep her distance and an unusually quiet stance. Bansit saw the prince before she laid eyes on her sister. The Morrigan who presided over the waters reacted as she usually did when forced into social situations. Being an introvert, her emotions only knew two ways to express themselves: complete suppression or a burst of feeling guaranteed to make the most level of beings feel distressed. Opting for the latter, she ran into Killian’s arms and held tight to his neck. Her whole body quivered and her amethyst eyes glinted amidst a shadow of pain.